God Only Knows
by skylarkblue
Summary: Sherlock returns and John's not happy. Complete for now, may come back to it and write more.


Sherlock wasn't quite sure what he'd been expecting. Knowing John, he believed there would be some expression of sentiment. A hug. Perhaps tears. He hadn't expected a blow to the face.

This issue of not expecting it was how Sherlock ended up flat on his back and clutching his bloody nose. His mouth hung open and he gave the roof a puzzled stare as he collected himself, sitting up, hand still at his nose, he turned to the livid John Watson and said, in a disbelieving tone, "I think you broke my nose."

"You're lucky I didn't break your neck!" His voice was strangled and his fingers twitched like he was still seriously considering it. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever seen John quite so angry. "You bastard. You utter fucking bastard. I thought you were dead. I mourned you. I had to watch you die!"

"I understand why you're an-"

"No you don't!" John picked up a nearby mug and pegged it at the wall. It shattered, sending ceramic shards across the floor. They crunched under his feet as he paced back and forth, head in his hands.

"John, are you - are you crying?"

"No, I'm bloody well not!" He snapped, and Sherlock winced, half expecting another hit. "You think you can just waltz back in after letting me think you were dead?"

"...Yes?" Sherlock was silenced by a look, sensing his sudden reappearance was not good. A lot not good. He thought John would be elated, ecstatic even, but this just seemed to be...rage. John glared at him, and pointed to the door.

"Get out."

"Pardon?"

"Get out." John seized Sherlock by the shirtfront and dragged him off the ground, pushing him towards the door. Sherlock was mildly surprised at the careless manner in which this was done; had he really forgotten how strong the ex-army doctor was? He tried to protest but found himself pushed out onto the stairs, the door slamming shut behind him.

With no where else to go, Sherlock sat at the top of the stairs with his back to the door, despondent. He rubbed at his bloody nose with his sleeve and listened.

John was still pacing around the flat, kicking bits of broken mug out of his way, until he stopped and rested his head against the smooth wood. He was considering pounding his skull into the door until all this bullshit went away, but that probably wouldn't be a good idea. With a defeated huff, he opened the door. Sherlock heard the creaking hinges and turned his head, still with his shirt sleeve to his face.

"Let me see your nose, idiot." John pulled the door open wider, allowing Sherlock inside. He peered at the taller man's nose with his usual diagnostic gaze, frowning. "It's not broken, but get some ice on it."

"I suppose I deserved it?"

"Yes. You did." John pressed the ice pack against his nose, completely ignoring the twitch Sherlock made at both the cold and the slight pain. "This reminds me of when that university student hit you in the face with his textbooks."

"That was less painful." He placed his hand over the pack and held it to his nose, studying John carefully. An awkward silence descended over them as they observed each other. John stepped back, folding his arms defensively and leaning against the bench.

"I saw you on the bus once. That was you, wasn't it?" John broke the silence with a small voice, his face pained before shifting back to the stoic soldier's mask.

"Yes." Sherlock's voice was equally silent. "After I dyed my hair. That was an accident." He could see that day clearly in his mind, the memory so perfectly preserved in the walls of his mind palace it could have happened just that morning. He'd taken the bus out of necessity as Mycroft had refused to send a car, saying it would be overly conspicuous. He had never known John to take the bus, so to see him sitting there had caused a dreadful jab to his heart. But even worse had been when he'd walked past - the flash of recognition and disbelief in John's eyes, before being replaced by the realisation that it couldn't possibly be him, because he was dead. The hurt, the grief that was so clear in that moment had given Sherlock that horrible sinking feeling, that quiet doubt that maybe this wasn't a good idea. That wasn't the first time he'd seen John after though - it was the third, the first being when he'd visited the grave. The second time had been at the shops, buying a carton of milk, and Sherlock had nearly walked straight up to him and told him there. That vague memory reminded him. "I brought milk. It's in the bag over there. Next to my coat."

"You...brought milk?" John's incredulous stare was unnerving. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut before giving Sherlock one of his disbelieving looks. "First you come back from the dead. Then you bring milk. There is no end to the miracles of Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock chuckled, giving him a grin that was returned with the first proper smile seen on John's face in months. Pulling the icepack from his steadily bruising nose, he got up off his chair and reached for two mugs. "I'll make tea, shall I?"

"No offense, Sherlock, but your tea is horrid. Let me." As John filled the jug and pulled a couple of teabags from the cupboard, he cast a glance in Sherlock's direction. He looked almost identical - almost. When John had seen him on that bus, his hair had been copper coloured (the thought now made John laugh at the sheer absurdity. Sherlock, a ginger) and cropped short. Now it was back to the same unruly dark curls, though still shorter than he remembered. He seemed both paler and thinner than John could recall, with his clavicle seeming to jut out of the skin, entirely too visible through his ill fitting shirt. The only thing that was completely identical were Sherlock's cyan eyes but even they were surrounded by dark circles and looked duller than usual, despite the keen gaze that was deducing the state of the flat.

Stirring his tea thoughtfully, John handed Sherlock his mug and sat beside him, staring out the window. "I think you should explain where you've been. Properly."

"...Of course." Sherlock sat very still, staring into his tea until he found the words. When he began speaking, the story was disjointed and confused, until he seemed to hit a point where everything turned into a cohesive sequence of events. He spoke for over an hour, until the sun had set and the sky went dark. John simply listened and occasionally made a quietly sarcastic remark, and when Sherlock was done his eyes returned to the darkened sky outside the window.

Sherlock watched him and wondered when exactly John had hit breaking point and how close he'd been to doing something irreversibly stupid. However he didn't mention this whatsoever; instead he gave John a careful look and asked, "John, what would you have done if I never came back?"

"I wasn't expecting you to, Sherlock," John's voice had lost its strength again. "But god only knows."


End file.
